Disclaimer : Hellboy doesn't belong to us ... maybe one day, when pig fly.
This is "talking" and this is 'Thinking'
Manning April Fools Day
"Good ending"
'By all the Gods that I don't pray: I hate holidays.'
Walking along the well-lit corridor of the underground bunker that was the B.P.R.D. was Thomas Manning, Director of the said infrastructure. He was sporting his usual clean cut business suit which was accessorised for the occasion by a 'kick-me' sign stuck to his back, green hands, a soggy left shoe and a bad mood.
The bad mood was special. It was a BAD MOOD. Yes, yes, with capital letter. The kind of mood that begins in the morning and accompany you along your day, hiding behind your every reaction to something displeasing, waiting for you to snap at the random victim. A mood that simmer under the boiler of the sarcasm machine in your mind or else the steam would actually seep out of your ears.
And Manning was proud of that bad mood. It was domesticated. Something that he learned to use over the years to get through his days. Especially holidays.
Because for Tom, April First was a pain in the neck, a huge burden and an endless source of troubles all warped in a pretty package sitting on a fart pillow.
Working long enough in the B.P.R.D. tend to change your perception on certain aspect of life. And by working, I mean not getting killed, melted, cursed, temporal de-axing (a new one he learned last week, poor girl), or simply retaining your mental stability long enough to receive your first paycheck.
'Oh yeah, note to self: Need to fill the document for the honorable discharge for Andrew… and find a better eulogy than: "Got eaten by demonic piranha Cactus. What irony."
You see pretty much all modern holydays are derived from some sort of old tradition, that goes back to some sort of ancient ceremony to ward/call/appease some sort of Evils/catastrophes/Advent and whatnot that spell doom for humanity. Reduce them all to their common denominator and it will always equal Blood. Always the blood.
And it always end up to the BPRD to mop the blood.
'And back in the days, I used to like festivities. But after that stunt with "Le Père Fouettard" for Christmas in France last year… And also that horrible 'surprise egg chase' with that serial killer Easter Bunny. Or those thrice damned shamrock eating Leprechaun mooning peoples on top of a St-Patrick Day parade IN MANATHAN! And don't get me started on All Hallow Eve. Eug.'
'And could someone have warned me that Cupidon was such an asshole? Noooo. "Let Manning figure that for himself at his expense shall we? We'll have a good laugh!"'
So holidays for the B.P.R.D. are busy days.
But April Fool's Day was surprisingly free of any connotation of Doom and Gloom, and therefore everybody took the opportunity to hop on the "Fun-wagon" for one day and all the seriousness, the almost militaristic strictness, the no nonsense attitude or the morally acceptable code of conduct he tried to enforce in this mad-house all year round goes down the toilet as soon as the calendar it 01/04/20XX.
Which is a place he completely avoided on this day, no matter how uncomfortable it gets. His eyes would turn yellow before he would step in one of those mine fields. No way.
What were those green hands, you ask? Surely they were the result of that particular prank the janitor is so fond of every year and many are going around the building with dubious colors on their hands. But… not if somebody purposely ask the janitor to give them some green dye.
People seem to forget that despite being contender for the title of "worst boss of the year", he didn't get to his position by being a fool contrary to what everyone else was thinking. Like the "Kick me" sign on his back was also his own doing. It made him look like an idiot but it stopped other to stick something else on his back and with the cuckoos nest he was in charge off, it could be way worse. He learned that at his own expence.
First year in office, when thing like 'there an apocalypse scheduled next Wednesday' would made him panic, somebody had stuck a rotten sardine on his back. He had quickly discovered the offending source of the odor that followed him everywhere but not who did this.
The following year, it was a simple piece of paper with a funny drawing on it.
A drawing of a magic circle with ancient runes that cursed anyone wearing it to speak backward without the cursed realising it. The Minister of Defence of India was soooo pissed after that phone call.
And that last year was the worst. Once again a paper but this time it said: "Party at Manning tonight!", with his address and when he got home late, the all window were shaking from the base of the Techno music the DJ had selected, there was too much people inside so they naturally overflowed into the pool, the barbecue was overflowing with flame and meat (he didn't own a barbecue) his sole tree was T. so much you didn't see the leaves anymore and they had found his stash of vodka since the fifteen beer keg brought to the party ended up empty faster than expected.
The cops arrived soon after with complains of noise and a stolen barbecue.
Being the boss of such an organisation meant he had a giant bull eyes painted on his back and everybody thought because it's April Fools, its ok to prank the head honcho. AND SINCE it was a secret governmental agency, a quarter of the personnel consisted of spies, the next one of extremely trained combat specialist from all around the world. They could almost out-sneak a ninja ('And we got three of those!') if they wanted. With either of those, you could get pranked and you wouldn't even know who did it.
'IF you find out you got Punked in the first place! The use of ultra-sophisticated gadgets for jokes should be outlawed!'
Another quarter of the personnel was made of paranormal individuals.
Oh goodies.
Too important or too rare to fire, they use their "political immunity" with total impunity. So you got psychic that can mess with your mind, screw your perception of reality or leave subliminal subjection that make wear you underwear on your head. ('Fred on level six still didn't realise he was wearing pink piggy slipper in the office'). Guy that can pass through walls who leave pigeons in safe vaults. Or the occult team that throw little curses like an indiscriminative catapult. You could end up with the polarity of your chakra inversed and you feel like a woman for the rest of the day. Or they enchant your shoes to sound like farts every five steps. And sometime they get creative and put unspeakable horrors of the lower base dimension plushy that sprang from your lockers…
'But one of them didn't take that one really well last time. We had to wrench out the chair out of his hand before he killed one of them."
And we got the final quarter of those employed by the B.P.R.D. The worst in his opinion. The most vicious and vindictive of the lots. The homebound. The ones that remained behind during the missions. He was of course speaking of the accounting department, secretaries, science division and Tech-service.
'God, those are mean bastards.'
You see, those who went in the field in the B.P.R.D. share a common camaraderie build on life threatening situations, forged in the fire of saving each other bacon and the comforting fact that the one next to you in the communal shower after a mission now share the same trauma as you.
But for the rest, who were left behind in the safety of the base ('… Ok, "safe" is a relative concept in this place but still…) don't really get to share those bonds. They are absolutely indispensable part of the team, cogs in the machine, but cogs can wear out after grinding too much on the same others cog day after day. They get stuck in the same building, with the same people, every working hours, stepping on each other toes, getting on everybody nerve and dispersing their general bad mood (domesticated or not) everywhere like a lawn sprinkler.
'Note to self: For the next base, we need windows with a view on open space. Being cooped underground his not good for moral. Maybe the mountains…'
All the rivalries, the petty disputes, backstabbings and gossips cumulated on this day like a cold war where everybody took pot shots at each other's too see who will turn thermonuclear first. Oh, it all seem inoffensive on the surface but under the thin ice, there is a scuba diver with a saw ready to make a hole. And Manning in his career had learned to read such undercurrent and it wasn't conforting.
One of his recurring nightmares, was to get caught in a copy machine bombing as an unintended victims.
So you ended up with strange computer problems, leaking pencils, realistic plastic looking spoon made of salt in the coffee corner, remote controlled cherry bomb in the toilet systems and coded messages with numbers in the accounting report that nobody catches beside the accountants.
And all the people working at the B.P.R.D. joked the day away, pranking their coworkers with phony phone call and getting away with it, leaving a huge mess all azimuth because it was April Fool's Day. The day the otherwise clean cut organisation of his became the real asylum it was.
It was Chaos and everybody knows that Chaos beat Order every time because it is better organised. An organisation Manning knew under the name of Hellboy.
Hellboy was to this holidays what bird was to hot air current. He was the only one able to navigate all the factions without any problems, somehow belonging to none despite his apparent affiliation. He outgrew them and now he was occupying a faction of his own ('Population: himself.'), manipulating everybody on this day like a Machiavelli in clown clothing.
To the detriment of Tom, most of the Bureau grandest history of elaborate pranks were orchestrated by him. And Because the Bureau was Hellboy and Hellboy was the bureau, he took upon himself to be the pressure valve that stopped the building to go up in flame ('And I am not referring to Miss Sherman here.')
So despite Manning meticulous planning and careful navigating, almost every year he was the target of some elaborate scheme to pass him for the King of Fools. This time it seemed his last name was the theme. Or more precisely, the Manning equation about open channel flow.
Emails, false birthday cards, reports, jokes, prank calls: everything was turning around sewers and pipes. If he wasn't the victim he would applaud the efforts, now if only they would just as much in their works.
There was even one that included six pairs of women underwear, Roger the Homunculus, wiped cream, a blow torch and a horse which left him with one soggy shoe but that still turned around his name. Details on that particular event are now banned with a sentence of extreme prejudice.
So now Manning was treading the Bureau corridor carefully toward his last defence, his Fortress of Solitude, his office where he planned to nurse a good bottle of Scotch. He hadn't seen the red giant all day, none of the pranks he was subjected were too horrible if it wasn't for the single themed ideas. The building was still in one piece and the day was almost over. If he could bunker down and wait the rest, he would be home free.
He was almost there when is smart phone buzzed, signaling a new message. He stopped to check it, in case it was something important.
'If it's about plumbing or manhole cover, I swear the sender will pass the next months patrolling every dirty inch of New York sewers until they find those rumored giant mutant "ninja my ass" turtles.'
It was a simple mail from Hellboy to everyone within the B.P.R.D., containing a single image. A photo to be precise. A photo of Abe Sapien, the famously un-prankable fishman of the Bureau was floating in his water tank transformed into a bad taste goldfish aquarium, every accessory up to scale. His face, a mask of complete surprise and stupor. The perfect moment caught on camera.
And like that the grouch of the B.P.R.D, Thomas Manning laughed. A laugh deep, loud, full of humour and mirth with a touch of madness at the edge those. He found the image so funny that he forgot all the bad things that happen that day. For the first time in years, he found April first to be a good day.
The End … or is it ?
For those who wish to read the "bad ending" to Manning's day please read chapter 2
On Bookeater-otaku's account
u/2743034/Bookeater-otaku
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Bookeater-otaku:
After reading a few of the new reviews we had for our stories, it gave us the idea to do a sequel for A Tale for the Fishes. And in one of our writing session I had this idea to see the same April fool's Day but from Manning perspective. It gave me a chance to play with the mind of Manning and explore some more of this crazy B.P.R.D. we created in the previous fic.
Since A Tale for the Fishes belonged to Shiroyuki9, I asked her permission to write it, when I got the green light this fanfic almost writed itself. Its one of those time where inspiration take over and you are just the tools used to put it on paper.
Euh… I don't mean I write with my blood… Anyway! I am quite happy with this one, so leave a review to let us know what you think of it.
Shiroyuki9:
Who said April's Fool must absolutly be on April first ... I guess I'm just trying to justify the lateness of this story ^^;
Truth is, it's been writen and ready to publish for about 2 months now and we were to wait on April's first to put it on line. But came the day, Life had gotten her greedy little hands on us and I totally forgot and Book was working up north in a place with lousy internet.
Anyway, I hope you all envoy and please leave a review *^_^*