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Freelance Police Headquarters, Tuesday

Max lay on the floor all morning reading the latest edition of Max Impeachment Weekly. It was worth it just for the laughs. Or girlish giggles. There were plenty of both, really. Occasionally he'd stop and add the name of a journalist or Senator to his list of people to have executed for treason. They were his favorites.

The big plate-glass window still had their logo on it, followed by the line

Our Rates Are Better!

And there was still another sign in the window, one that read

NOW HIRING
Employees Must Furnish Own Gun

The Freelance Police were on the case!

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That's what they're here for: the scintillating conversation.

...But please, don't say 'scintillating'.

"That magazine is positively scintillating," Sam said, oblivious to Max's narrative. "Have your transgendered antics as a crazy-eyed attractive woman made the national notice yet?"

"Please, Sam, don't say 'scintillating'," Max complained.

He sighed and closed the magazine. "Nothing yet," he answered. "I might just write a letter to the editor communicating my displeasure! And when THIS week's edition comes out, I'll write another one!"

"Do they still pay for incriminating photographs?" Sam asked, picking the magazine up from Max's desk and inspecting the back cover. "I have several that could be aiding my anemic, wounded bank balance. Even a few of this weekend, though I'm not entirely clear on how to convince them that the femme fatale with dark circles of eyeliner is, in fact, the same lagomorph they know and love. Or, in this case, know and bring articles of impeachment against."

Edited 2008-12-09 20:12 (UTC)

"Anemic bank balance? We're OUT OF MONEY?!?!?!" Max jumped up and prepared to throttle Sam... and then stopped. "Okay, hang on. Help me draft some legislation that I can strong-arm through Congress."

"I meant my private account," Sam said cheerily. "The secret offshore one that I've never told you about. I fund it by selling blackmail-worthy materials of you to tabloids and members of the House Appropriations committee. Once I get enough saved up, we can add laser-guided missiles to the grill of the DeSoto." Sam needed a moment to savor the imagery. "You're not mad, are you?"

Max chuckled and tsk-tsked. "Oh, Saaaam, Sam Sam Sam. You didn't need to do that! I'm saving up for laser-guided missiles for the DeSoto, using the money I get from selling my belly-button lint."

Needless to say, Max's secret account had far less money in it than Sam's.

"Awww, that's sweet of you, little buddy," Sam grinned. "It seems to me that we should join forces. I imagine if I had photographic evidence of you mining your belly button for lint, our DeSoto funds would skyrocket."

Max, who had, in fact, been doing just that, paused while sniffing his finger and gave Sam a confused look. "Why do you say that?"

The door opened to reveal Triela, who had been drawn in by the sign.

Now, of course, she was sort of staring.

This was new.

Max peered at Triela. "Sam? Did you remember to lock the door?"

"It... wasn't locked," Triela pointed out helpfully.

"We're open for business, Buckethead," Sam told Max affectionately. He nodded to the blonde girl. "Greetings! Have you come with a case of dastardly villains and sinister plans? We thwart evil on a regular basis."

"Er... no." Triela blinked, trying to remember why she'd walked in.

Oh yes!

"I saw a sign? About hiring?"

"She wants to be another minion, Sam!" Max squealed with glee. He hopped in front of her and pointed at the floor. "Bend over and clean my toes with your tongue, slave!"

Triela blinked.

Then she looked at Sam for help. He... was the sane one... right?

"I think you broke her, Max," Sam offered. "Looks like your filthy little toes are going to stay mildew-ridden."

"Awwwww, I don't want her if she's broken!" Max complained. He peered at her closely. "'Scuse me, miss, where do I take you to get a replacement?"

"I am in perfect working order," Triela complained without much emotion. "See?" She held out her arm and wiggled her fingers to demonstrate.

"A damn shame," Sam sighed, ignoring her comments entirely. "We didn't get to ask her any of our neat interview questions, like whether she had a gun, or if she's ever quelled an angry mob of constitutionally-elected representatives, or what sort of tree she would be, if she were cursed to live the rest of her days as a tree, as retribution for her wronging some evil tree-fairy."

Edited 2008-12-09 22:37 (UTC)

"Mmm-hmm," Max replied, mesmerized by her wiggling fingers. "Tree fairy. Hey, how come I never get any tree fairies? Haven't I earned it by now?"

Triela's hand fell loosely back to her side and her head swiveled back and forth between them.

She had only thought she understood how weird this was when she walked in. She's beginning to realize that she didn't really have a clue.

She'd stopped talking again. Huh.

"You think she'd fit in the closet with Leonard?" Sam asked.

Yes, Max Impeachment Weekly is a real magazine in their world. I love our canon!

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Talk to Sam and Max

Re: Talk to Sam and Max

Re: Talk to Sam and Max

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Re: Talk to Sam and Max

Re: Talk to Sam and Max

Re: Talk to Sam and Max

Re: Talk to Sam and Max

Re: Talk to Sam and Max

Re: Talk to Sam and Max

Re: Talk to Sam and Max

Re: Talk to Sam and Max

Re: Talk to Sam and Max

Re: Talk to Sam and Max

Re: Talk to Sam and Max

Re: Talk to Sam and Max

Re: Talk to Sam and Max

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Re: Talk to Sam and Max

Re: Talk to Sam and Max

Re: Talk to Sam and Max

Phone

OOC