Okay -This happens after the Michael episode. And there's a reason why they called themselves Trouble Tones.
"Jacob, have you ever handled dynamite?"
"Only in the shower" the short boy with the Jew-fro said with a sneer.
The curvy black girl sitting across from him bellowed with laughter. "People say a lot of things about you, but nobody ever mentioned you were hella funny. I'm going to like working with you."
"Okay Lexus," he said angrily "what do you want?"
She smiled, a dangerous smile she learned from Santana. "See, already you've gone too far. They got any other writers around this so-called newspaper?" She looked around the classroom
"Nope, just me."
"What about him? Hey Tim!" she called out to a Filipino boy several desks over.
"He's graphics. No, the only writer here is me."
Tim DeCastro leaned over. "What do you have, Mercedes?"
"A story that writes itself!" She put her phone down on the desk, far enough away that Jacob couldn't see the display.
"Is that blood?" Tim asked. Jacob looked over with interest.
"No, it's slushie." Jacob tuned out. "But notice anything unusual about the guy holding the dripping slushie cup?"
"Why is he dressed like that, just escaped from some institution?"
"Precisely! Dalton Academy to be specific." Jacob tuned in again. "Crazed slushie wielding maniac escapes from school for chronically over-privileged boys and attacks public school student. I thought we could go all 'we are the 99%' on this story." Mercedes said. That's a good angle Jacob thought.
"To hell with that!" Tim said. "Let me organize a flash mob and we'll go down there and occupy Dalton." That would have nice visuals Jacob thought, especially when the cops came and dragged them all off to jail.
"That's a good idea, Tim." Mercedes complimented him, batting her lashes dramatically. "But there's more to this story. Look carefully at the maniac." Tim peered at the cellphone image. "Now look at this." Mercedes sat down at his computer and started punching keys. Jacob casually inched his hand over to the phone but Tim picked it up just before he reached it and turned back to the computer.
"Holy shit!" Tim was clearly impressed. "How'd you know that?"
"Momma's got skills!" she chuckled. And Sebastian's got a big mouth. "Daddy dearest just sent a 12 year old girl to juvie for eating french fries on the subway. How's Mr. Tough-On-Crime District Attorney going to explain this away? But wait! There's more!"
"More?"
"Yes, look at this." She showed him another picture on the cellphone display.
"He's going trick or treating as a pirate? Wait a minute," Tim said with great exaggeration. "I thought he was from there?"
"He is. I thought we could write a story about the spawn of fat cats fighting it out down here among us humble, naive po' folks. Maybe imply they're behind a crime wave or something. That's what I meant by the story writes itself. A decent writer could milk this for a month." She looked over at Jacob leaning backwards in his chair. "But guess what? That was no ordinary slushie."
"It wasn't?" Tim asked breathlessly.
"Nope. Doctored with something, exactly what is open for speculation, wild unprovable speculation, but Blaine could lose an eye! That's rich folks for ya." She sat back in satisfaction.
"But what if..." Tim started.
"What?" Mercedes asked, slightly irritated that Tim was ad-libbing.
"What if Mr. 1 percent didn't mess with the slushie?"
"Of course he did! A slushie won't put your eye out. Actually it's a scratched cornea but nobody can confirm or deny any particular set of 'facts' for a couple of weeks until Blaine gets back."
"Yeah, but suppose it was contaminated before he got it? Picture this. A slushie machine holding an AK-47. Caption – Icy Treat or Ice Cold Killer?"
Mercedes beamed at him. "More like cornea killer but that's good. Really good. And he said you can't write! I should have come to you in the first place. You're as good as he is."
"And I've got pictures to go with it." Tim continued flipping through the images. "Hey, I know him! Trent. He lives down the street from me. He's on a scholarship or something. Definitely not rich."
"Maybe it's a gang initiation thing. They make them come down to the hood and attack innocent folks minding their own business. We should go interview him, maybe he can be our inside source. Evil doings in the ivy halls of Dalton!"
Jacob was leaning over so much he fell on the floor.
"You okay over there, Mr. Writer man?" Mercedes asked with false concern. "'Cause momma hasn't even reached the best part of her story yet. Blaine wasn't the intended target. Now riddle me this, which son of a recently elected US Congressman would Blaine Anderson take a slushie for?" She picked up an imaginary phone. "Mr. Ben-Israel? Rachel Madow on line two."
"I'm sorry, Mercedes. I'm begging you." Jacob said on his knees at her feet. "Please give me this story!"
"Fine, just keep my prints off it. I'm supposed to be on the high road."
Sebastian looked at the two boys dancing on the other side of the bar. One was blond, his hair cut long in the front, which he kept flipping out of his eyes. That was sexy. The other was bald. That was odd. Sebastian wondered if he was sick, but he wasn't dancing like a sick guy. They were dancing and singing to each other.
Well I guess it would be nice
If I could touch your body
I know not everybody
Has got a body like you
But I've got to think twice
Before I give my heart away
And I know all the games you play
Because I play them too
Oh but I
Need some time off from that emotion
Time to pick my heart up off the floor
And when that love comes down
Without devotion
Well it takes a strong man baby
But I'm showing you the door
'Cause I gotta have faith...
They had similar builds, both trim and athletic. The blond was a better dancer but his face was a little soft for Sebastian's taste. The bald guy, nice. Really nice in a semi-exotic way. He watched them dancing, singing, touching, flirting, laughing.
Baby
I know you're asking me to stay
Say please, please, please, don't go away
You say I'm giving you the blues
Maybe
You mean every word you say
Can't help but think of yesterday
And another who tied me down to lover boy rules
The song ended and the two boys hugged. The blond put on his coat, and started to leave. He laughed when the bald kid patted him on the ass on the way out the door. The bald kid came over to the bar, stood next to Sebastian, and ordered a beer.
"Hey!" Sebastian said.
"Hey!" the bald kid said.
"Sebastian. Sebastian Smythe." he offered his hand.
"Noah. Just Noah." he smiled shyly and shook hands. "I don't know how it works around here."
"What happened to your hair?" Sebastian believes in getting right to the point.
"Lost a bet to Goldielocks." he nodded towards the door.
"Is Goldie your boyfriend?"
"Evans? Yes and no. Yes, he's my boyfriend, no he doesn't know it yet." Noah laughed nervously. "I'm still working on it. He's what you might call bi-curious. I'm getting close."
"Why?"
"Why? If you saw him climb out of a pool you'd know why. And did you see his eyes?" Noah smiled at the memory.
"But why go through all that effort when you could just..." Noah could tell Sebastian put a lot of effort into that I don't give a damn smile.
"Just what?" he asked, snapping back to attention.
"Just me."
"I don't even know you." He looked at Sebastian carefully. "Not that I don't like what I see but you could be some crazed maniac for all I know."
"Do I look like a crazed maniac?" he said with a sly smile.
"I've never met a crazed maniac, that I know of, so I don't know." Actually, you look like a guy trying to get laid Noah thought. "I guess you look sane enough."
"You want to sit down and discuss it?"
"You don't go to McKinley, do you?" Noah asked as if the thought had just hit him.
"Me? As if! I go to Dal...a private school on the other side of town."
"Good, I have a reputation to uphold."
"You go to McKinley? Do you happen to know Blaine, Blaine Anderson?"
"Blaine?" Noah answered with an enigmatic smile. "Ah, Blaine!"
"I thought he had a boyfriend." Sebastian frowned.
"Fights happen. I'm not opposed to picking up a little rebound action. What the boyfriend don't know won't hurt him. But ask him about it and it never happened." He looked around the bar. "That's my story and I'm sticking to it." he sang off-key. "Damn that Evans and his country music. Hey! Do they serve food here? I'm starving."
"Nothing I'd put in my mouth." Sebastian smiled again.
"There's nothing in this bar you'd want to put in your mouth?" Noah smiled, a slow, beautiful smile. "Not one thing you'd like to wrap your lips around?"
"That's not what I said."
"Oh." He finished his beer. "Let's talk."
"Damn it, Puck," Santana said, stepping into the hotel room. "I told you to get him alone, not for the two of you to make out all night."
"What can I say? I got carried away. It was fun, no wonder Kurt and Blaine stare at each other all day." Puck looked at the boy passed out in the bed. "I've discovered a whole new set of options. Not the same as a girl but..."
"Why does this not surprise me?" Santana interrupted with a sigh. "You ready Pete?" The stocky man with her nodded and opened his bag of instruments. "What's your pleasure?"
"Tips appreciated?" Santana suggested.
"Oh, he's so pretty." Brittany cooed. "Plus, he'd never believe he did that on his own." The four sat there looking at Sebastian's bare ass for a few seconds. "What color are Blaine's eyes?" Brittany asked.
"Brown I think, why?"
"An eye." she pointed out a place on his left cheek. "For an eye. That's what the Bible says."
Santana looked at Mercedes, who was smiling a secret little smile to herself. All that time they spent together in Troubletones taught her a thing or two about Ms. Jones and she was definitely up to something. She followed Mercedes' gaze out the window, where a news truck was parked. Jacob Ben-Israel was standing on the front steps, talking to a reporter. Her smile lit up even more.
"Spill it, Wheezy!" Santana whispered.
"What?" she looked over at Santana. Then past Santana at Puck. "What the hell happened to him? It's an 1000 percent improvement but what happened?"
Santana looked at Puck's bald head and then back with a guilty expression.
"Snicks' got nothing to say?" Mercedes whispered.
"Ladies!" Mr. Schuester yelled. "Puck's just about to explain about his new haircut."
"When a man's partner is killed, he's supposed to do something about it. It doesn't make any difference what you thought of him. He was your partner and you're supposed to do something about it. And it happens we're in the detective business. Well, when one of your organization gets killed, it's-it's bad business to let the killer get away with it, bad all around, bad for every detective everywhere"
"And that's relevant, how?" Finn asked.
"It's from the Maltese Falcon." Mercedes answered slowly. Now Sam was looking guilty. "The very end of the movie where Sam Spade's sending the woman he loves to jail over a guy he didn't particularly like anyway. Like how somebody might not have been crazy about Blaine but they did a thing or two to take care of a certain situation. Not for Blaine, but for show choir."
"Yes," Puck said. "I took one for the team, for show choir. You guys will never know how much I love you all."
Sam gave him a high-five. "Better you than me, bro!"
"You'd want that, Mr. Schuester, wouldn't you?" Santana asked, daring him to say no. "That we did whatever we could to make show choir a better place?"
Will looked at Santana and Mercedes. They both looked so innocent. Too innocent.
Faith – George Michael