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32 Apocalypse Avenue (soon to be Freelance Police Headquarters), Wednesday

Some of the things that Max had pounded into the wall with a hammer had been actual nails, and one of them had even found a stud to lodge in. It was over this nail that he proudly hung the dartboard, very nearly hiding the absolute mess he'd made of the wallboard. "Boy, it's really starting to feel like home, isn't it, Sam?"

Leonard was snug in his closet, Hubert the dying plant had a window to be near, and Mr. Spatula -- sorry, Vice-President Spatula -- and his water cooler were cozy near the door. Sam surveyed the room with an approving nod as he taped the Bill of Rights to the dartboard. "Looks just like the old place did, little buddy. I can't decide if I feel more nostalgic or overcome by a dark, distorted sense of deja vu."

The sign on the door read:

with a fancy script line added underneath:

Our Rates Are Better!

Sam had had the foresight to place a sign in the window:

NOW HIRING
Employees Must Furnish Own Gun

They weren't exactly open for business yet, but that door looked so inviting. Like it was just begging to have visitors, well-wishers, and townsfolk knock on it.

(As always, co-written with the stuck-at-work

maxnotsam. OPEN! Flying OCD-free since they're just setting up and all!)

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Bored. Bored Reno was bored. And wandering the street in search of something to validate his unemployed, somewhat hung-over day.

... The sign that said employees must furnish their own gun looked promising!

That. That there? That was not a knock. That was Reno leaping right on to trying the doorknob, peering inside, and clearing his throat.

"What are your thoughts on stun batons that shoot lightning and occasional fireballs in the place of a gun? I gave my gun to my future alternate-universe half clone kid, zoto." A pause. "But I can get a gun, too."

"Greetings and salutations, fellow citizen," Sam said brightly. He still had no idea where his bowling ball, Lou, should go. Maybe he'd just toss her into a drawer. "Where might we acquire some of those lightning-enhanced stun batons, and do you accept US Treasury bills?"

There really was no point to executive power if you weren't going to abuse it shamelessly in order to purchase potentially unsafe weaponry for your own amusement.

Max aimed his gun at the dartboard, trying to decide which Amendment to shoot. "Do they fit on giant battle robots?" he asked. "I mean, they don't have to, but I'm working on a theme with my government weaponry."

Reno scratched at the back of his neck absently, in thought.

Huh. Okay. Really was a dog and rabbit duo. He could handle that.

"The EMR was ShinRa issue. Probably won't see many of them ever again, but I'll see if I can bug my buddy back home to scrounge some up. If nothin' else, you could, uh. Duct-tape 'em on to your giant battle robots, or whatever." A pause. "And money's money, ain't it?"

Seriously. This wasn't really much different from where his last paycheck was coming from, was it? Maybe slightly less sane. But only slightly.

"So, you're hiring?" As per the sign, yes, Reno.

"We find ourselves in need of assistance," Sam explained. "A few useful characters to answer the phone, feed Leonard, fend off the angry pitchfork-waving mobs, and help with our investigative concerns. Tracking down clues, solving crimes -- the usual, really."

And to join in the violent, dangerous, stupid games they played while inbetween cases. That was a big plus.

"Nooo, we're not hiring," Max chuckled. "Sam and me, we're a two-man team. We don't get help from NOBODY... Wait, we are?" He peered at the window. "Well, that explains the sign! Okay, you're hired!"

He aimed carefully and squeezed off shots at the third, first, fourth, first, and fifth Amendments, as his stomach rumbled. "Sam, do we have any pie?"

... Getting a job had never been so easy.

Reno approved. Especially the 'fending off angry mobs' and 'tracking down clues' parts.

"Kickass," he decided. Because, dammit, if anyone could help with investigative concerns, it was a member of the former Department of Administrative Research, after all.

Plus, they paid. And shot at things. "When do I start?"

Hell, he'd go on a pie run, if that's what they wanted.

"When would you like to start?" Sam asked congenially. They hadn't negotiated price, but Max had once swiped a hundred million dollars to declare a neighbor's residence to be a Historical Site. (Twice, actually.) They had money enough until the feds cut off their access. "Do you have any allergies, felony convictions, offshore bank accounts, or nuclear weapons we should know about?"

Not that any of that would disqualify him. Because it wouldn't.

Edited 2008-11-27 05:48 (UTC)

"You can start right now!" Max added gleefully. He put his gun away (don't ask where) and grinned a sharp-toothed grin at Reno. "C'mere and scratch my fuzzy white butt," he ordered. "Dealing with Congress really chaps my behind."

... Reno was going to have to tackle all of this conversation, one answer at a time. Ticking it all off on his fingers as he went.

"No, probably, I wish I did, nuclear power ain't been tapped yet on my world, and you can scratch your own fuzzy little ass, pal."

That about covered it, didn't it? He figured it did. Yep!

Max grinned and started bouncing on his toes. "OOOOOH, Sam, he's so CUTE!!! Can we keep him?!?!? Please please please?!?!?"

Sam folded his arms indulgently. "We've talked about this, little buddy. No more pets until you've proven you can take good care of Leonard."

Edited 2008-11-27 06:10 (UTC)

"Trust me, you don't want me as a pet anyhow," Reno mused. "If I don't get out for regular walks, I'll start pissin' on the carpet or somethin'."

Okay. He already liked these guys. Even if he was slightly worried about the possibility of picking up a case of fleas from his new employers.

"Leonard only messes when we shoot at him," Sam offered helpfully. "That reminds me. I'm Sam, Freelance Police. This here is Max, and he's the President. That over there," he pointed to the water cooler which housed a goldfish, "is Vice-President Spatula. He needs to be fed, too, if that can go on your list of duties. We've never had lackeys to ill-treat before, so I'm not familiar with the protocol."

Reno blinked at Sam.

And then blinked at Max. And then at Sam again.

"Fortunately for the both of you, I ain't a stranger to this 'workin' for a president' gig, yo. I'm Reno, by the way. Of what would'a been the Turks if it weren't for a couple of explosions, an' then a couple more." A pause. "Ain't never fed a goldfish before. I'll try not to kill your VP."

... And if he did, maybe he could just get one from the petstore before anyone noticed.

"You'd better not," Max cautioned. "It's an election year!"

He eyed Reno eagerly. "These explosions you mentioned... do they happen... often?"

"All the freakin' time," Reno replied with a shrug. "You don't want somethin' blown up, it'll blow up. You want somethin' blown up? It'll blow up and probably take you with it, zoto."

It was like, rule one of Gaia, for crying out loud.

"You a fan of the explosions, huh?"

"We tend to cause a lot of them," Sam supplied helpfully. "Sometimes even on purpose. Are you offering to be our one-stop shop for detonations and dynamite? And if so, are you willing to blow things up for no good reason other than the pretty sparks they give off when they shatter into prolonged electrical death?"

"Oooh, the pretty sparks one! The pretty sparks one!"

Max grinned. "We're very mayhem-oriented," he explained.

THIS WAS THE BEST JOB EVER WHY OH WHY DID RENO NOT MEET THESE FREAKS EARLIER ON IN LIFE FOR THE LOVE OF SHIVA'S TIT-SICLES? DAAAAAMN.

"I been known to blow shit up now an' then just for the sake of somethin'... flashy." He would have died flashy. And he would not have allowed himself to die any other way, dammit. "I do mayhem good."

"Sometimes, when Max and I find ourselves low on mayhem, I try to shoot an apple off his head."

Sam nodded to the wall where there were brand-new bullet holes, forming the shape of rabbit ears in negative space. What? You couldn't unpack all day.

"It'd be easier if Buckethead didn't move around so much."

Edited 2008-11-27 07:52 (UTC)

"I only move AROUND so much because I stand on Lou," Max pointed out. "To make it more fun!"

He poked a finger into one of the bullet holes in the wall. "Tell me the truth, Sam," he sighed. "You miss on purpose, don't you."

"Somethin' tells me this place wouldn't be the same without you and your white fuzzy ass," Reno mused, smirking to himself. "So. I can start... Sunday or somethin'?"

Reno liked the thought of working Sundays. It seemed like the day of the week that held the least likelihood of him ever having to do real work.

"Bright and early," Sam agreed. "Or late. Sometimes we stay up until dawn watching the test pattern or those infomercials where Cher talks about her new line of hair care products."

Max looked Reno in the eyes. "Tell me the truth," he ordered. "Is my fur inadequately conditioned?"

Reno considered. It was a short sort of period for consideration, as he wasn't really the master of personal hygiene, here. He passed, sure, but he wasn't Sephiroth and his whole bottle of special-order freakin' rose-scented toss that beautiful silver hair ShinRa issue conditioner.

"I guess that depends entirely on if you're goin' for that 'Missin' Sonny,' look, or that 'wild badger' look, yo."

Max pounced on Reno with a glazed look in his eyes and hung from the rumpled suit's lapels. Shaking Reno violently, he shouted, "BADGERS?!?! WE DON'T NEED NO STINKIN' BADGERS!!!"

Reno blinked, recovering from the shaking with relative ease, and stared at the rabbit who was now hanging from his jacket.

... Okay. He knew what look Max here was going for. It was certainly not the one that Cher advertised on TV.

"Trust me," he stated flatly, "your coat's just fine. Don't change a thing, yo."

"Max," Sam said, in a completely unconcerned (if mildly disapproving) tone. "What have I told you about accosting strangers with violence and puns based on classic film quotes?"

Max dropped off Reno and frowned at Sam. "...Make sure they're good puns?" he asked.

"I don't think there is such a thing," Reno noted, idly straightening out his clothing. Well. Straight for Reno, anyhow. "Is there?"

Good puns?

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32 Apocalypse Avenue (soon to be Freelance Police Headquarters), Wednesday

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