Chapter One: Don't Forget the Sporks!
Co-written by FlyingFish15 and Blu Embyr.
Disclaimer: We own nothing, except our OCs, Megan and Sara.
Blu: And just so you know, Ff15 wrote the disclaimer, not me.
FF15: Hey! No! Take that out! People skip the disclaimer anyway so they— No! stop writing what I'm saying! HAHAHAHAHA—gggrrrrrrrrrr…what is that? Stop! I mean it, stop!
Blu: And she really did say those things, folks.
Authors' Notes: Warning! None of the things suggested, exhibited, or perpetrated in this fic are to be attempted by an individual or a group of individuals! No one should commit these actions; even if you are fast healing, immortal, or just plain stupid! Ahem, and now introducing the fic by the dynamic duo, the paranormal pair, the terrible two, the abstract Authoresses… FlyingFish15 and Blu Embyr! (hears cricket chirping) Anywhoo, let the culinary chronicle commence! Bwhahahaha!
Well, it had finally happened. The BPRD's cooks had gone on strike.
Professor Broom sighed. He supposed that it had been inevitable. Between Hellboy's enormous appetite, Liz setting the toast on fire when she tried to help out in the kitchen, and various ravenous supernatural creatures getting past the wards and into the kitchen, he had known it would only be a matter of time before the cooks went on strike or just simply quit.
"What we need is a few cooks who are adaptable and intelligent." Professor Broom said. At just that moment, Myers walked into the Professor's study.
"Good afternoon, Professor! I just came in to tell you that I'm going be gone all afternoon to get ready for my date."
"Oh, really?" Broom quickly thought of a way to pawn off the task of finding new cooks onto Meyers. "While you're at it—"
Myers sighed. He hated 'while you're at its'.
"While you're at it, why don't you find a few new cooks for us." Prof. Broom "suggested."
"A splendid idea!" seconded Abe from his tank.
"I'm sure you heard about them being on strike." Broom went on.
"Yeah, the fact that we had untoasted bread and cereal for breakfast kinda clued me in." Myers said, not at all happy with being faced with this new task.
"I'm so glad you volunteered to help out. Have good time on your date!" Prof. Broom said with a smile as Myers left the room with a sour expression on his face.
—Myers POV—
Why is it always me? he wondered, rubbernecking out the window of his car to see if he could spot a bake sale or some wandering girl scouts. I mean, granted, Agent Lemming the Third was eaten yesterday, rest his soul, and I got out of cleaning the cat pans in Hellboy's room, but still, where am I gonna find cooks? Is there a hotline I can call or something?
Myers looked out the window to his right just in time to see an obviously homemade sign advertising a bake sale go flying past. He slammed on the brakes and turned the steering wheel so fast that he fishtailed into a U turn, his tires squealing. He came to an abrupt halt five inches from the sign handwritten in washable red marker and accented with absurd amounts of glitter. Behind the heavily laden table set up on the sidewalk were several teenage girls who were staring at him in astonishment as he got out of his car.
"Geez mister, did you really want something that bad?" one of the girls asked, her eyes wide.
Another girl bent down to pick up the loaf of bread she had dropped when the squealing tires had made her jump a foot in the air. Several other teens seemed to be suffering from nervous fits. A slightly underfed teen stared at him out of the corner of her eye.
"My father used to drive like that," she said, "and he didn't wear a seatbelt. And do you know where he is now?"
Myers looked at her suspiciously.
"Where?" he asked.
"Teaching teenagers to drive, of course!"
Somehow that didn't make Myers feel very comfortable about the competency of the teachers in the state's driving schools. Even so, he bravely marched over to the table where several of the girls drew back from him as if his driving skills were contagious.
"Excuse me, do you all hand out samples?" He asked.
"Only if you buy something afterwards." came the reply.
Myers picked up what looked like a giant blueberry muffin and bit into its soft cake-like texture. The pleasantly moist bread seemed to be packed with so many plump blueberries that it was absurd. The strong flavor of cooked berries exploded pleasantly in his mouth.
"Wow, this is really good! Who baked these muffins?" He asked, polishing off the muffin in about three enormous bites.
"We did!" said two girls, stepping forward proudly. (In the tradition of teenage girls worldwide, in the absence of their mothers, they instantly took responsibility for preparing the good food that their mothers cooked!)
Myers looked them over. The one on the right was roughly five-foot-eight, and a good eight inches taller than the one on the left. She was slender and had her shoulder-length chestnut hair pulled back in ponytail. She was wearing capris and a black t-shirt that loudly proclaimed in big bold letters: I (heart) the Phantom of the Opera.
The one on the left didn't look near as friendly or calm as her tall counterpart. She was wearing a camouflage-patterned tanktop that said: I'm Deadly With a Spork! She also had chin length, straight, neon orange hair, which was obviously dyed. She was about five feet tall, and wasn't quite as slender as her friend.
"Are you two interested in a full time cooking job?" Myers asked.
"Huh?" The smaller one asked.
"A full time cooking job," Myers repeated, almost pleadingly, "You'll be paid well, and you'll get rooms."
The two girls looked at each other, which involved the shorter one having to look up at the taller one, and the taller one down at the other, but they were clearly exchanging thoughts. Thinking they might be about to refuse his offer, and that he would spend all afternoon searching for cooks instead of getting ready to go on his date, he decided a compliment would seal the pact.
"Your talents would be greatly appreciated!" he pleaded, all but getting down on one knee.
"Alright. But we have to stop at our houses first to get stuff, and to tell our parents where we're going." the tall one said.
"Which is where, by the way?" the other asked, suddenly looking at him suspiciously.
Myers sighed. "I'll give you directions and your parents can take you there. Your parents can talk to the man in the lobby if they have any questions. By the way, I'll need to know your names so I can tell the staff to open the gate to let you in."
"I'm Sara." said the girl with the Phantom of the Opera t-shirt.
"And I'm Megan." said the one with the neon orange hair.
"Nice to meet you," mumbled Myers, who was hastily scribbling directions to the BPRD on a 'Happy Birthday' napkin that he had swiped off the bake sale table.
"Here," he said, handing it to one of the girls, "These are the directions, you start work today as soon as you get there, but make sure you arrive before five o'clock."
"Ooookaaaayyyyy," said Megan, drawing out the word.
"Great, see you there!" said Myers, hastily scuttling back to his car.
As he drove away, he could hear one of the other teenage girls shouting after him.
"Hey! You said you'd buy something if we gave you a sample!" she yelled.
— Meyers POV—
"Finally! Now I can get ready for my date and Professor Broom will be happy because I found some cooks!"
Myers celebrated by singing rather off-key to the songs on the radio.
Little did he know that the two teenage 'cooks', while being adaptable as all teenagers are, were also, as befits teenage girls, subject to abrupt changes in mood for apparently no reason (or so guys think, after all, we do have our reasons, don't we ladies?).
—Sara and Megan's POV—
"That was unexpected." said Sara.
Megan, who was more firey tempered than her more discreet friend promptly blurted out:
"What the Hell just happened?" she shouted. Then she looked down at the napkin she was holding. Without reading it, she looked down at the directions that Myers had written. "He has really bad handwriting!"
"You're completely missing the point," said Sara, taking the napkin and putting it in her pocket.
"No I'm not! You would say neat handwriting is very important!"
"Only because my Mom's the one who hands me a list when we go to a grocery store, and when I look at it I see things like 'organ juice' instead of orange juice, and 'smocked turkey' instead of smoked turkey."
Megan ignored her. "So, where are we going anyway? Do you think he works for some rich person who has a mansion and servants?"
"Maybe, but if he does, then he certainly shouldn't have hired you as a cook."
"Well look who's talking! You somehow managed to burn salad!"
"That was an accident! It was in a stainless steel salad bowl and I had no idea the burner on the stove was on!"
"Uh huh." said Megan skeptically.
Sara ignored Megan and turned to the other girls. "We're going to run home and pack. Good luck with the bake sale! See ya!"
The words were barely out of her mouth before Megan grabbed her arm and started towing her much taller friend down the sidewalk.
"Don't you just hate long goodbyes?" Megan asked, still dragging Sara by the arm. Sara let herself be dragged, it was easier than having to admit that she'd been beaten in a scuffle by a person shorter than she was.
THUD!
Megan didn't even stop to investigate the strange 'thud' behind her, that is, until Sara spoke.
"Megan, slow down! You just dragged me into a telephone pole!"
Megan turned and looked at her friend, who was now sporting a spectacular bruise on her forehead where she had been roughly introduced to the said telephone pole.
"Oops." Megan muttered, before tightening her grip on her friend's arm and then running at top speed towards home, dragging Sara behind her.
— A few minutes and a few nasty brush burns later—
"Yay! We're home!" yelled Megan.
"Yeah, great." panted Sara.
Directly in front of them were two houses that were roughly ten feet apart from each other. The blue house on the left was Megan's, and the off-white one on the right was Sara's.
Megan forgot that she was holding onto Sara and dragged her painfully up the stairs and onto the porch of her house before she realized what she was doing. She quickly let go of Sara.
"Look! Mom left the front door open for us." said Megan.
"Um…Megan—" began Sara.
But Megan ignored her, turned around, and ran straight at the door.
THUD!
Megan was flung backwards as she came in contact with the glass storm door.
"Serves you right!" Sara yelled as she gathered her scattered dignity and walked over to her house. Megan rubbed her forehead and stuck her tongue out at Sara. Sara didn't see her, which was probably fortunate. Megan scowled, flung the door open and marched inside, letting it slam with an almost painful crash.
"Mom! Sara and I got jobs! Could you drive us there?" She yelled, kicking her left foot to try and dislodge her stubborn flip-flop from her foot.
"Sure. What kind of job are you two doing?"
"We're gonna be cooks and we're gonna be paid and given rooms and—"
"Rooms?" said her mother, interrupting the deluge of information. "Why? They're not expecting you to stay there, are they?"
"Yeah. It's the whole 'kitchen staff on duty 24/7' thing. The guy that hired us gave us directions to the place and said you could talk to the man in the lobby if you have questions." Megan was going to say that he had really bad handwriting, but figured that it wasn't necessary.
"Well, alright. It's the summer after all, so you don't have to worry about school. Go get ready to go, Megan. I'll talk to the man in the lobby and then decide if you're staying."
"Thanks mom!" Megan yelled before running up the stairs to her room. She stumbled over a ball of black fur on the top stair, which, from the yowl, turned out to be a cat.
"Aaag, stupid place to sleep, furball!" Megan yelled over her shoulder as she flung the door to her bedroom open, letting it slam into the wall.
Then she raced over to the window, stumbling over a stack of books and some CDs on her way, and threw the window open.
"It's about time!" Sara commented, leaning out of her own bedroom window, which was conveniently placed directly across from Megan's. "What did you do, fall down the stairs? I heard yelling."
"No, I fell over the cat. But Mom said YES! Well, sorta."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"She wants to talk to the guy in the lobby before she lets us work there."
"Great! Don't forget to bring your toothpaste!" That said, Sara disappeared from view, presumably to pack.
"'K!" Megan yelled back, rummaging around beneath a pile of clothes lying on the floor in a vain attempt to find some clean ones.
"Arrg, why do I never have any clean clothes?"
"Because you don't look in your dresser or closet!" Yelled Sara from her open window. "The dresser and the closet are the sacred home of clean clothes! They flock to live there like multi-colored sheep and—"
"I get it! I get it!" Megan yelled back, throwing clothes out of her dresser and onto her messy, unmade bed at random. This procedure would surely result in her wearing some very strange outfits. Megan looked dubiously at the closet, and decided not to open it when a long hairy spider's leg protruded from under the door.
Swallowing what would have been a very loud "eek!", Megan instead uprooted her entire room looking for a bag to put her clothes in; blowing her pesky bangs out of her face.
"Hey! Sara!" Megan yelled, remembering something.
"What?"
"Don't forget to pack your hairbrush!"
"Don't you forget soap!" Sara returned, and a bag suddenly flew through Megan's window. "Ya might need that!"
"Nice toss!" Megan called, leaning precariously out of her window so she could see Sara's smiling face in the opposite window. "And don't forget your swimsuit or lava lamp!" Megan yelled.
"My swimsuit?" Sara muttered in confusion, retreating back into her room and grabbing her blue and green lava lamp off her bedside table and carefully packing it beside her neatly-folded t-shirts. Sara looked around her impeccably neat room for anything she'd forgotten.
"And bring SPORKS!" Megan's voice penetrated the brief silence, which was followed by her crazy laugh. Sara rolled her eyes and ignored her spork-obsessed friend as she stuffed some liquid soap into a plastic bag in case it leaked in transport.
"I'm ready!" Megan yelled, leaning out her window once more. "Meet me on my porch and my Mom'll drive us!" There was a loud bang as Megan slammed her window shut. Then Sara caught a brief glimpse of Megan's messily stuffed bag as she dragged it past the window and presumably out the door of her notoriously messy bedroom.
Sara closed her own window and slid her suitcase down the stairs, opting to slide down the banister with a joyous whoop. Ignoring the horrible bang of her suitcase as it hit an umbrella stand, Sara scribbled a hasty note telling her mother where she was and what she was doing. She left it on the kitchen table and bolted out the door, grabbing her suitcase and a spare key off a key rack on her way out the door.
When she got over to her friend's house, Megan was already running back inside to retrieve something she'd forgotten. Sara rolled her eyes and got into the backseat of Megan's Mom's car. When Megan clambered into the car after Sara, she breathlessly explained that that was the third thing she'd run back inside for.
"Everyone buckled up?" Asked Megan's mom, a tad impatient to go before Megan remembered something else she "needed" to bring. Megan suddenly sat up straight and reached for the door handle.
"Wait! I've forgotten my hair dye!" She cried, scrambling out of the car before anyone could protest.
When Megan returned, her mom promptly locked the car to prevent Megan from getting out again.
"Wait! I've forgotten my hairties!"
"Are you serious!" Sara said incredulously.
"No, I was only kidding to see your expressions." Megan said as her mom pulled out of the driveway.
Little did they know what they were getting themselves into. They had no way of knowing that their entire concept on reality was about to be shattered by the existence of what had formally been fictional creatures: a six foot tall demon, a pyrokinetic, and a (FF15: rather attractive!) fish-man…
Authors' Notes: What did you think? Any suggestions? PWEASE review! (Note, chapter two is coming soon!)