A little trickle of after-writing discovery by the author;
Hoo-wee, would ya look at HAT. There's actually, for once, hats involved in a TF2 story. And I am proud, friends. So proud.
Anyways, I tried extra-double hard on this story because I wanted to prove to myself that I could DO IT, MAGGOT.
So enjoy, and don't be 'fraid to tell me what worked and didn't work in the reviews.
Thanks a bunch, people!
It began in the recreation room one NBC Monday Movie morning, just like any other ceasefire week would. And, of course, our favorite young troublemaker's hiney was seated on the sofa with a popcorn bag on his lap and IQ dropping with every second. Good morning, Scout.
The screen was dimmed with eerie gray smoke-machine smoke, and Scout nearly bit his own fingers off at the suspense. Another hand digging into the popcorn bag he had all to himself didn't ease the suspense-movie aroma. Scout was sure to grind his teeth carefully on the meant-for-movie snack for the remainder of the thriller so he wouldn't miss any more major plot points. It's not too far off to say the movie was cornier than the crunchy plastic ripoffs they bought at the local gas station.
"This is hopeless, Holmes," muttered Watson through his poofy little mustache, cane clanking with every step. "I mean, if Jack the Ripper was ten feet away we wouldn't see him."
Scout's eyes grew wide and he was a gasp away from inhaling an unhealthy mound of popcorn to clog his esophagus. As always, however, he missed the logic of the fact that this part wasn't supposed to be suspenseful at all. "IF DERE'S A MURDERER ON DA LOOSE YA DON'T JUST STAND AROUND OUTSIDE IN DA DARK, YA DUMB DICKOS!"
Sherlock had already begun his first sentence in the scene, but Scout had missed its frontal portion. It didn't matter all that much to him anyhow, because he knew that the man always said something too smart for Scout to understand. "...is what the jungle is to the tiger, Watson. Inconceivable at all until he pounces, and if he is ever to, only to his victims."
I think it's quite obvious that Scout didn't get a single word of that.
Yet Sherlock's deerstalker mesmerized him to the point in which nothing mattered except a sentence uttered to express how in awe one must be about the fictitious character. Scout was one of those people with the amazing talent of chewing popcorn and missing the meaning of the movie completely at the same time; "Holy crapbaskets. Holy muffinjunk. Holy hoo-balls. I want his fuckin' hat."
The scene went on with a dash of unnecessary dialogue from Sherlock. "We must continue," said the Englishman to his lesser counterpart. "Jack the Ripper will not allow conditions such as these to go unused." One must agree, for the stage looked pretty scary right then.
Watson whirled his head around. Scout squeaked just in case.
Sherlock wended his way into the distance. "He's out now, Watson." Together the 1800s heros strutted out into the gray light, church bells chiming in the distance of the film. Slowly they evaporated into the London fog.
"Sherlick, please don't die," prayed Scout aloud with an embarrassingly off pronunciation, for someone with such a masterpiece of a headwear item deserves to be immortal. Of course, his wish was granted, for on the absurd instance that the main character was to be killed right then and there then one could clearly foresee that the ratings wouldn't be too high. (Unless it's Psycho! Dear god, Scout could gush on about that one until the end of time.)
Fade to black. In turn, minimal light arose back into the shot; night, as it was suggested. A pale-skinned woman with baggy eyes and messy blonde hair appeared onscreen, leaning out of a window with skanky dress out for all to see. "'Ello lad. Ee, ye lo'k like a sport, ya fancy comin' up?"
Only a few seconds into her sentence and her accent was already classified; "Yo, she sounds like a girl version a' Demoman." After a short and nonsensical moment of consideration, a conclusion had been formed. "Nah. Screw it, she's still hot."
It was heavily implied that she was a prostitute, but Scout clearly did not find meaning in why she was inviting a random person upstairs. The woman grinned wearily and looked down at the off-screen man, murmuring a Demo-sounding whore offer; "Hang on a min'it, I'll throw ye da'n a key." She reached into the room for a second, and then turned back to the window. An arm extended to toss the trinket down. "E'e ye go, darlin'. Catch." The metal hit the floor of the street with a rattly clang.
"What a stupid woman," scoffed Scout. "She might get raped or somethin'."
A gloved hand with ripped fingers – hint, hint – grabbed the key and brought it to unlatch the door. The camera, whose viewpoint was in first-person, did not show the appearance of the man nor did the crackly speakers on the side of the television amplify any hint of his voice. One must really wonder why.
Soon enough, the drift was caught, though a normally educated person would already have predicted the outcome as soon as the scene had begun. In realization, Scout leaped against the sofa and half the popcorn flew out of the bag like buttery confetti. "OH MY GOD, IT'S THE KILLER DUDE! JACK DA RIPPAH! JACK DA RIPPAH IS GONNA KILL DA HOT LADY!"
Music began to trill as the door squeaked open to reveal the prostitute leaning over the stair's banister. "Mind ye shut th' door behind ya, lad?" The door was shut in wordless response. Low violins hummed to set the murderous mood.
"OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, SHE'S GONNA DIE! RUN, YOU RETARD, RUN!" screeched Scout as if the scriptwriters could drop the whole thing on the spot and cater to his exact viewer-perspective needs.
A friendly voice behind Scout startled him. "Howdy there, boy, what'cha watchin'?"
Scout swerved his head around angrily to notice an interrupting Engineer leaning against the sofa with a soft smile.
"GO AWAY! GO AWAY!" commanded the young man, an absent hand that swatted the Texan away showing Scout was trying to keep at least one eye on the television. "I'M AT DA SCARY PART!"
The friendliness he offered was completely spit on by Scout, just like the dumpling Heavy had made with all of his Russian heart for yesterday's dinner. "Oh, er, sorry."
In horrendous forthwith, a sight almost offered a heart attack to poor Engineer as he looked beyond the sofa and gaped at the horror. "Woah! Oh mah god!" If goggles could pop off one's head and fly to the ceiling in astonished terror, Engineer would, to his disparage, lose his sturdiest pair. "What's all that popcorn Ah made doin' on the floor there? Clean that up, would ya? That there is one big mess, mister."
Though the woman on screen was clearly continuing on with her lines, her voice did not reach the ears of the Bostonian observer as did the kind ramblings of his Southern teammate. Scout went into a rampage, for he missed more lines of a mystery movie in which every word mattered. It would be much preferred if Scout had said this in a polite way, but people are people; "LAY OFF AN' SHUT YER TRAP, Y'OLD SNOOZE! I'M TRYIN' TA WATCH THIS LADY SAY STUFF!"
Engineer winced and considered apologizing again, but then decided against it.
In the aftermath of the piss-Engy-off-and-get-no-valid-response equation, the Texan brought it upon himself to accompany Scout in watching a few minutes of the thriller, but during every section of the movie Scout would make a negative comment about the actor's appearance or their British accents or their lack of proper 'swag'. It was then time for Engineer to leave the fellow RED alone with his TV movie, going by the unimaginative excuse of 'Nah, don't wanna fuss ya, I ain't really into them thriller-mystery things all that much, anyhow.'
Scout sat through A Study In Terror all by himself until the very last name was scrolled by in the credits, at which point he began clapping and hooting and making an enormous deal for it was the best movie he had seen that day. "OH YEAH, THAT MOVIE WAS BOSS! WOO! WOO-HOO-HOO-HOO!"
As with all other media, movies can provide a good source of inspiration for young dreamers.
That's why the first thing Scout did after leaving the television room without cleaning up the popcorn was dash straight to his buddy's room and nearly drill the door in with both fists banging. "Yo, Py-Py! Let me in, bro!"
A moment was spent with Scout standing by the door, not understanding why the wood wasn't flinging open. Utter silence other than the striped sneaker tapping on the floor in impatience.
Comprehension sprung to him as he realized he failed to recite their super-secret password. It was then shouted to the hallway, which is probably not a very good method of concealing secrecy; "THE SUPER SECRET PASSWORD IS 'MICKEY MANTLE UNICORN POOP 69 HEAVY IS A JIGGLY PUFFBALL'!"
"Hmmg hmn, mhn shmmdhm!" called Scout's arsonist pal. After a moment, Pyro appeared at the door. "Whmm'sh mmp, brmh?"
Cue handshake. Scout brought his fist forward to collide against his friend's glove, and as soon as their knuckles met they performed their personalized ritual.
Though imperceptible by the human eye, it was choreographed in such a manner that if someone had been passing down by them they could have sworn they saw hands that could have seizures. Hands flew as if in hurricanes. Wrists spun like screwdrivers. Knuckles cracked and fingers literally unhinged. Eventually yet consequently, those fifteen minutes passed and the friendly-gesture-gone-wild came to a halt. (Consider this description abridged, for one could compose an entire novelization based solely on their hand movements. Sadly, it would have more plot than this nonsense.)
"So listen, dude," began Scout, eyes sparkling with the airborne idea that has just plunged through his ears and into his temporal lobe like a malfunctioning Q-tip. "I was thinkin'. An' den, like, I thought a somethin'. A real epic idea. An' you know me, pally, and I always have da epicest ideas, haw haw! Ya know ya want me, Pyro, it's true. Dat's 'cause ladies love me. It's not my fuckin' fault I'm so han'some.
"Ac'chally...I think it's 'cause a' DNA. Just, like, ta be honest.
"But dey don't know dat. Dey're jealous. E'ryone is jus' jealous, especially my dumbass big ol' bruddas I hate. I do too have a sexy nose and I ain't even a skinny prick who's 'obsessed wit useless baseball junk and runs all day' at all! Ma says I ain't. And Ma knows more than dem bitch-ass-niggahs, that's why."
Scout shook his head at the lack of logic. Only after that point was enforced with solid parental backup, it was time to get back on track. "Yeah, so wait. I was tellin' ya about my idea. 'Kay, so, it's, like, a mystery case we gotta solve, 'kay? It's gonna be our first case ever! You excited? I'm mad excited! Guess what case it's gonna be about?"
Finally, an answer was expected from Pyro. It was done minimally to create a social equilibrium; "Mm?"
The Bostonian made something up on the spot. "I think..." Victim acquired; "...Snipah's..." He declared his judgment with a face so stone-cold one could have already used it as evidence. "Pyro, I think Snipah's a liar!"
A cock of Pyro's mask at the sudden accusation showed as a vast array of confusion towards the subject.
"Shmmpr'sh mm lmmrh? Hmh?"
"Yeah, e'zactly!" Scout grinned. "And so we're gonna be detectives and figure out why he is. And, uh, what he's even lyin' about. But if we gotta be detectives, then..." He brought a gauze-wrapped palm to the top of his head and tossed the baseball cap somewhere into his friend's room. Baseball Bill's Sports Shine at the top of his head made the next sentence obvious; "We...
"...need..."
Drumroll, please. "...HATS!"
"Whmm kmmnd mfh hmtsh?" Specificity was a virtue.
"Um. Maybe...like, like a Sherlick Homes hat thingy. Ya know what I'm talkin' 'bout, right? Da legit floppy one." Scout pantomimed the little flaps flopping about with his hands. "With the two little ears in the front and back, kinda."
"Mhm!" Pyro nodded ecstatically, as if deep in the Optical Lens mask was the knowledge of where to get just the thing. Pointing toward the medical office on the side of their hallway, a sentence was the giveaway of where such a hat was previously seen. "Mh knmmh! Mmdhc'sh mffhcsh!"
Their nosiness would know no bounds.
By now I am sure the late Sir Conan Doyle is off creating earthquakes in Minstead. Rolling in one's grave to such an extent probably isn't benefiting the environment. So, so sorry, Doyle.
(That apology is figuratively directed from Scout. He's deeply regretful with every last inch of his heart.)
...okay, okay, so you caught my fib there. No, friends, Scout didn't really apologize afterwards and he actually didn't give two iotas for any writer other than the authors of those baseball biography books he collects in a pile under his bed. With that tidbit that shows a lot about his intellect, I'd say the young man probably still doesn't even know that Holmes didn't originate in a badly-staged movie shown once on mainstream television.
You know, it had been quite the situation, really. Borderline ridiculous, if I'm to say.
And poor Sniper; you'll soon find out the social abuse he'll recieve as the story goes on.
It really goes to show that pride-n'-prejudice when judging a friend and/or team pervert can lead to things spinning out of control before you're even assured they're correct. It was a pretty embarrassing mistake for the whole team to make, but eh. Because no one feels bad for Sniper, am I right? (Yes, I am right. Stop crying.)
Why don't you sit back and relax your thinking muscles, dear reader? (And dry your tears of Aussie-pity.) Chapter by chapter we'll delve into this mess. And believe me on this one; there's not going to be a whole lot of thinking involved.