Don't own Death Note or Freakazoid. All legal DVDs, yes, and a great deal of the licensed DN stuff. Freakazoid, none yet. Better WB make some because I will buy it unless they sue me and stick me with legal fees.
Sur La Table is a specialty cookware retail chain. The one mentioned in this fic is the Santa Monica Promenade location, due to its proximity to Venice Beach.
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L. Lawliet just stares up at the man floating in the air, his hand grabbing yet another sugar cube. "It's obvious you're not telepathic," he finally says.
"So you know my name, then."
"Yes. What I'm curious about are the parameters of your powers," L says in a monotone as he pops the sugar cube in his mouth.
"Go on." The candleight reflects off his hood and its stitching.
"What if I wrote it down?"
"I don't know. But you could test it?" His eyeholes are wide with longing and he has enough rope.
"No. I suppose I could get some inmates from death row, but I have so many theories I might run out," L murmurs. "Does it work if I typed it?"
"Don't know."
"What if I said it in French? Starting with bougie, chandelle, cierge, maybe even bougeoir?"
"Honestly, I'm not sure. And would it be Jack or Jacques?"
L studies him, "It's your powers, not mine... Though, would it only work in a country that spoke French or a household or even a Sur La Table?"
"I made that mistake as well. After I came back from France, my French was so good that I stopped in there, hoping to show it off and get a nice housewarming gift for Jeepers and Vorn."
"I didn't realize they were roommates."
"You're the detective. They're not roommates, really. Don't get them started on Proposition 8."
"Is that why you're here? Looking to add the world's greatest detectives to your collection?"
"It is an impressive challenge, you have to admit."
"And should you succeed, then what?" L gets up and starts putting donuts on a skewer.
"..."
L sighs, "What about Engrish?"
"What's that?"
"You know how 'r's and 'l's are interchangeable in Japanese?"
"I'm not an otaku..." he hisses at L.
"If I called you Candre J-.." L stops himself and puts a cruller on the skewer.
"You almost said it," the other man says with a mix of triumph and disappointment.
"So Engrish isn't safe, then."
"I can't tell for certain unless you say my whole name."
"That's convenient."
"No, seriously, I really don't know."
"This is going to take a while. Here," L hands over the donut-kabob to Candle Jack.