A/N: This story was inspired by a theory about Denny I read on TV Tropes. That idea is not mine. The rest of the ideas in this story, however, are original.
I don't own "The Room."
The sky above San Fransisco was the color of a tarnished spoon, floating against a blank white backdrop, framed in silver. Rain poured down on Denny, making him as drenched as Johnny and Lisa would have been so many nights if only Johnny had lived long enough to figure out how sex worked. (You had three holes to pick from Johnny, and the navel was not any of them.) The mud flowing Denny's Winnie the Pooh sneakers was the same shade of brown as the brick alleyway they had played football in while wearing tuxedos, what felt like so long ago.
Johnny was dead, but there was still much investigating to do.
Denny's mission was almost complete. "Denny" was almost finished being Denny, for good. But until his contact arrived, he couldn't drop the charade. He liked to think he knew who the other secret agent was. Peter seemed the most obvious candidate, with his buttoned-up demeanor. Denny could easily see Peter as James Bond's nerdy little brother. Otherwise, his next guess was Lisa, the classic femme fatale.
Denny reached over to run his hand along Johnny's black marble headstone. No names or dates were inscribed on it. Instead, just an elegant carving of a framed spoon. Deciphering the significance of the framed spoons that filled Johnny and Lisa's house had been one of Agent Denny's top priorities, along with inferring the species and origin of Johnny himself. (Alien, vampire-zombie hybrid, and former Electric Mayhem drummer were the three most popular theories among the bigwigs of the CIA.)
"So, you're Agent π ," a young, feminine voice said. But it wasn't Lisa.
Denny turned to see two people standing before him; Mike and Michelle, the slutty couple who often broke into the homes of friends, acquaintances and sometimes perfect strangers to make love and eat chocolate. And then Denny mentally kicked himself. Duh, it had been so obvious. They'd used the exact same cover he always did: pretending to stupidly stumble into the target's private quarters, with the excuse of being a pervert.
"So which one of you's Agent ∞?" Denny asked.
"I am," Mike replied. "'Michelle' here's from Scotland Yard. Neither of us knew the other hand agents investigating the Johnny conundrum, and when we discovered each other we decided to pool our resources."
"Agent ~," the woman said, revealing her true, Oxford accent. "It's a pleasure to finally meet the legendary Agent π."
"Likewise," Agent π replied, dropping his fake "Denny" voice and speaking, for the first time in months, with his natural baritone voice and Brooklyn accent. "I usually prefer a challenge, but for this mission, being Agent π was a piece of pie."
Sympathetically, Agent ~ said, "It must've been a right bore, for a forty-one-year-old agent with a three-digit IQ to have to spend eleven months playing the part of an intellectually disabled twenty-year old, with the sex drive of a frat boy."
"No shit," Agent π confirmed. "So, what did you two learn?"
"We just came from the flower shop," Agent ∞, or "Mike," said. "We overheard Johnny's origins, from the dog. He's-"
"I know," π cut him off. "The bastard son of a zombie and a bored housewife." He shook his head with disbelief. "I can't believe he's actually half-human! And from Earth!"
"Naturally," ~ said. "Aliens have far better disguises. Like a cute dog in a flower shop, with a vocal droid shaped like a flower seller."
π made a face. "I figured she was a robot, but I guess I should've guessed the dog being the one at the controls. Okay, so we know Johnny's origins. What other intel did you two gather?"
"His motives," Agent ∞ said. "His attempt to secure the promotion at the bank was not a part of any alien or zombie takeover scheme. Like the Frankenstein monster, he simply wished to be accepted, as a part of our society."
"So many of the creatures and freaks we must investigate are perfectly innocent creatures, with that same wish," Agent ~ sighed.
"But Johnny was a danger to society," ∞ reminded her.
"But it wasn't his fault," π ran a hand through his sandy hairpiece (how good it would feel, to shed this Denny disguise once and for all, and be his bald, Brooklyn self again!). "Poor Johnny was just a confused zombie-human hybrid, created during an attack from even stupider aliens. How was he to know that radiation from his body caused those around him to become mentally deficient nymphomaniacs, and in one case, contract cancer?"
As if on cue, a loud groan broke through the graveyard, and four zombies staggered by. Two looked like they'd been vampires before their deaths (not the modern goth action-hero kind, the old-school Dracula kind). The third looked like he'd been a professional wrestler in life. And the fourth was...Claudette?
"Well," Agent ~ said with a raised eyebrow, "Looks like Claudette's found a way to cheat her cancer."
"Okay, Okay," Agent π began ticking off on his fingers, "So we've learned Johnny's motives origins, his motives, and what was going on in that house. That just leaves one mystery left." He reached into his black tux jacket and pulled out one small, framed spoon photograph he'd smuggled from the house, as evidence.
∞ nodded dramatically, and gazed at the carving on Johnny's tombstone. "The spoons."
"Why would a half-zombie trying to fit in with humans stuff his house with framed photos of spoons?" π said.
"Spoons resemble spades," ∞ mused. "When a zombie is 'born,' one of the first things he'll see are grave robbers with shovels. Perhaps he found those picture frames in a thrift shop, saw the stock photos of spoons, and was overcome with a feeling of nostalgia."
"No," his British partner shook her head. "Why not just frame pictures of shovels and graveyards, then? I don't think Johnny was the one who decorated that house. Remember, he was living with his 'future wife.' And Lisa's brain had been reduced to mush, from being exposed to Johnny-radiation. I think the spoons were a romantic symbol. You know, 'spooning.' She designed his headstone, after all."
A low rumble shook the graveyard. The three agents looked up and froze, at the sight of a dark object flying across the cemetery and descending downward, like a football. But it wasn't a football. It was a woman on a motorcycle. It was Lisa.
She was dressed head to toe in red leather, the same shade as the red dress and other slutty red clothes she always wore. Her blond hair was twisted up into some ludicrously sci-fi style, and her eyes were hidden behind expensive motorcycle glasses. She did an elegant backwards flip off her bike in midair, allowing the vehicle to crash into a nearby crypt, resulting in an explosion that knocked all three agents to the ground.
When π pushed himself back up, it was just in time for Lisa's booted foot to round-kick him in the jaw, knocking him back to the ground. The CIA agent wondered if he was now unconscious and dreaming, because what happened next was impossible. Lisa rose into the air and froze; then, after a 90 degree freeze-spin shot, she delivered a kick to Agent ∞, knocking him into Johnny's spoon-carved headstone. ~ came running at her, gun drawn, but Lisa was ready. She ducked down, bringing up one red-clad leg to kick ~ in the forehead with the heel of her boot, knocking her out cold.
Then Lisa pulled a cell phone from the gap between her boobs, an old '90s flip-phone, and flipped it opened. "I'm in."
The voice on the other line sounded like a black guy. "Lisa, you must save Mark at all costs. He is the One. It is foretold in the Prophecy, the One will be a young, pretty-boy with no acting talent, and a sucker for female lead characters."
"I've littered the house with hints," she said. "Soon enough, it'll hit him: there is no spoon."
And then Agent π finally understood. None of it was real-the aliens, the zombies, and least of all the spoons. That corny sci-fi movie with the bad CGI had been telling everyone the truth, and no one in the world knew it.
Made about as much sense as anything else.
FIN