As all good detectives do, Scout was pacing around in a circle whose perimeter was tracing along the bench Pyro was then lying down on, swatting at flies with a rubbery glove. It was a wonderfully clear day outside as they rested by the Sacred Evergreen of Manly Awesomeness and Legendarily Attractive Guys Such as Scout (namesake copyright Scout ©1968 - who else?), hence a great opportunity for...
Mystery.
Bringing a hand to rub against his chin, Scout hummed for a moment in a manner very similar to Holmes; "HMMMM."
Pyro watched with intrigued goggles, as if Scout actually had a brain cell in his rattly skull.
The figuring-out-why-Sniper-was-a-barking-mad-sociopath had begun. "Yeah, so, I know he keeps stuff in his van, but we can't even get inside his van because we don't even have his fuckin' keys that I bet are in a retarded place or something...but, ta be honest wit you, I don't even wanna go in his van anyway because I've been rode around in dat dump-on-wheels one time and daaaaamn, son, it stunk like an old skank," muttered Sherlock as a showcase of his incredible IQ.
"Whmmt uhbmmt hmsh rmmh?" suggested Pyro.
Scout looked up, the front flap of his deerstalker pouting over his frown. "Uh, what da hell about his room?"
"Thm ehmvhdmnce mmrght bmh hnn hmsh rmmhm."
He grinned. "WATSIN...WATSIN! YER A FUCKIN' GEEEE-NIUUS!" sang Scout.
The arsonist giggled in a highly muffled tone.
And so it was. No skank-smell for them.
They made their way over to Sniper's room and – with a similar sneaky atmosphere upon them as when they attempted to reel the Private Eye in from Medic's office – prepared to unveil the messiest and most neglected bedroom in all of the base.
As soon as Pyro opened the door, both could tell Sniper was not only a liar but also a hoarder.
The walls were trying oh-so-hard to be wallpapered, yet they were peeling and turning as yellow as the spare ten jars of Jarate balanced on a rickety-looking table beside his bed. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that Sniper could have napped on a carpet of hot coals, but his bed looked to not have even been used once. Instead of any sheets covering the sickly mattress, there was a miserable blanket of old socks that could have easily been put into dozens of natural history museums for prehistoric research.
Upon craning his neck up, Sherlock discovered the ceiling was cracked and had some sort of grease dripping down into a saucepan like Chinese Water Torture - Low-Maintenance Edition. Too bad the saucepan itself was full, so every drop added to the small puddle forming around it instead.
Though most REDs take trash out every Sunday for the dump truck to digest, it appeared that the trash can resembled more of the dump truck than their tiny garbage bags. Bulging out of the rusty metal were so many soggy tissues that they could have easily been woven together to form a pretty impressive cloud, and betwixt those odd-colored white clumps were year-old chicken nuggets that were green enough to already have been brought back to life and killed again. Flies swerved around the garbage as if it contained hallucinogens.
A desk – probably too large to fit in the van – was riddled with paper and scribblings and photos and bobbleheads and vinyls and bootlegged movie discs and countless other trinkets a normal person would have already shoved with the nuggets and the fapkins.
Around the room hung multitude of Australian event posters, most of which were unidentifiable to a the average Joe unless he was the average Bilbo Baggins. Other sorts of posters – ones with bikini models leaning over cars, just as Scout remembered – were plastered onto the walls as well. The doubles that nearly sprung out of their wet swimsuits were basically the only attractive thing about the entire room.
One could not see the bedroom floor.
"Wow, I don't think he's been in his room for, like, five-fifty thousan' years," Scout huffed, kicking his way through the sea dirty clothes. "Wait, no, dat ain't right. I mean...I don't concur."
"Mhm, Shrmmlck, mgrhmd." Pyro stepped on something with a crunch. Looking down, Watson discovered the crisp thing under the rubber boot was a browned-up rotten head of lettuce. "MMMRHHGHGH!"
Unable to hear the woe of others, Scout's eyes darted across the room for a morsel of evidence. He locked glare with a certain heap; jackpot. He scurried over to the desk and squealed like a excitable toddler. "LOOK, DERE'S LIKE, A MILLION PHOTOS!"
"Phmtmsh?" Pyro joined his side.
"WATSIN! WATSIN, WE STRUCK GOLD!" cheered the young man. Photos flew through their hands and were indulged in their eyesight. Most black-and-white-and-somewhat-sepia Polaroids were pictures of the Aussie with his family, something that induced laughter from both of them. Some were more boring, depicting Sniper with friends or in the foreground of a nature scene. The deeper the two got into the photo pile, the less wrinkles appeared on Sniper's face. But there was one photo that truly made Scout gasp so loudly that Pyro thought he'd faint due to lack of air circulation.
"Whmm? Whmm msh mth?"
The Bostonian was unable to answer, for his mouth was twitching and the ear flaps of his hat stuck up as if they gravitated up to the greasy ceiling.
Pyro leaned over his shoulders and almost lost both lungs as well.
In the photo was something highly uncalled for. At first it appeared to be a completely unrelated photo like that of only his friends or perhaps another boring band album.
But as their eyes riffled about that picture, it became less and less of what they had expected.
A circle of bodies nestled on a flowery grass, sun making their desaturated faces seem paler than they appeared. All of them either wore tie-dyed shirts or no shirt at all, but the few that were dressed less had tattoos on the skin - mostly dragon graphics, sometimes flowers, some of them with words written in fonts that were too blurred to read. After scanning the image with betrothed Bostonian eyes, it looked as if Sniper was the leftmost of the men sporting tie-dye shirts (thank god for that, since Scout would most likely pretend to vomit for at least two hours).
Sniper's haircut was...unique. The dark knotted bandanna around the top of his head with hair falling to his shoulders looked strange after seeing the assassin on-duty with about half the hair.
The assassin was smiling – grinning, even – with different circular glasses down to the tip of his nose and eyes finally lacking a squint. The RED they knew so well looked ages younger, for he lacked those exact assortments of smirk-imprint-fossils that made his face look like a shriveled blanket.
Of course, Sniper's appearance was a big factor, but the strange white cigar popped betwixt his gap-toothed grin was the giveaway;
"Hmmh? Snrmphr msh mh himmphie?!"
Further examination commenced. The other beatniks surrounding him were all wearing similar sunglasses as well, though styled and appearing to be of different tone. In the grassy epicenter of the explosion of flower-child faces – each of which surrounded by a sloppy mop of tied-back hair – rested a tiny pile of various flowers. After so long was it discovered that no girls were in the picture, but it was a bit hard to tell that fact for volumous flowing hair makes for quite the distraction of gender identity.
Scout flipped to the back of the Polaroid to see faded ink scrawled in indecipherable letters. He pointed to the pen smears. "Pyro, can you read dis? I think it's in Australian."
The mask shook beneath its hat with a sigh, for Scout's vacillating ideas of false languages were far too much for the average bear to handle. "Shmmrlck, thmth'sh crshmvh."
"It is?" Scout squinted and pulled the writing a mere centimeter before his eyeballs as if it would make a difference. He rolled the strange new word on his tongue; "Cursive. Currrr-siiiiive. Huh! Never heard a' dat language. Maybe it's from da far distant islands of Australia or somethin'. But either ways, dat's, like, da worst handwritin' in da hist'ry a' ever. I can't read jack-shit. And I can read loads a' crap."
Some Pyros do not agree, but the same minority chose to stay silent.
After ten minutes of examination, Sherlock made a conclusion. "I do believe dis situation is real rather persnickety!" huffed he, tugging on his frontal hatflap.
"Whmm'sh thmmt?"
Scout shrugged. "I dunno." He looked back at the back of the photo with utmost concentration. "Wait a secon'! I think I can see numbahs aftah dose weird-ass language! Da...da numbahs say...uh, is dat...18...no, wait, 19..." That's about as far as he could go. "I think...yeah...19 somethin'...sorta..."
"19..." The gears in Scout's literate portion desperately needed to be oiled with the grease of better Boston public schooling.
"Uhhhh...19...like...1, an' 9 an' then...uhhhhhhhh..." The petite blob of gray matter after the digit confused Scout's smaller pea-brain, though his veins pumped with great dirty puns about various animals.
Eureka at last for the young man; "1959! I was 10 then, I think! Hey, dat ain't even such a long time before. Woah, wait...what?"
Pyro watched as Scout looked up to him, confusion contorting into angered comprehension. "If Snipe's a hippie den, Snipe's a hippie now. Don't ya see? This ain't just any case, Watsin. Dis is da biggest case we had yet."
Let me quietly remind you that it was also the only case they'd had yet.
The snortalicious French snort was the giveaway of a certain someone. "Snooping as usual, I see?"
The two hat-heads took a shock and a full-body swerve only to discover it was Spy peering in on them with a cigarette dancing in his smile.
Spy waltzed into the room with all the pride of a royal groom, seemingly unaffected by the Australian pig slop on the floor. "Zhis isn't your private estate, gentlemen. It is Sniper's, correct? Intruding on natural 'abitats of bushmen. Activities of zhis manner aren't done for fun, usually."
The cigarette drifted up in a small grimace. "I believe you're 'ere to gather some sort of information, yes? Quite surprising you 'aven't had me to step in on such a project yet. I am zhe Spy, you know. 'aving any...say, investigational troubles zhat I could 'elp you with?" Spy snickered.
Scout raised up a satisfied smirk in defiance to the professional French pragmatist. "I do concur ya should shut da fuck up, Spy, 'cause me n' Watsin here know somethin' you don't!"
"Did I hear zhat right, or...?" He paused with a confused grin. "...you and...Watson?" repeated Spy.
"I'm Sherlick!" announced Scout.
Spy snorted far too loudly before bursting into his fits of gut-breaking laughter. "HAAAA HA HA HA! OH, PLEASE!"
Pyro took this in massive offense. "SCMMTH MMD MMH RHH DMMTHCTVHSH! SHMM MMP, SPHM!"
Spy snapped his head over to Pyro, giggle-fun-time abruptly ending. "Oh, play and play your little game, you silly freaks. I'd bet a fortune you never even read Doyle's work." Snobbish as he was, his next sentence was completely demeaning to both of them. "What a waste of his wonderful idea. 'e was a magnificent writer, mind you."
Scout stalled. "Oh yeah? Oh yeah?"
This did not taunt Spy. He raised an eyebrow. "Yes and yes."
Scout didn't expect such a direct answer. "...w-well, I watched da movie!" he argued, utmost pride shining through his tilted-up chin. "And movies are bettah den books. Ha ha, in yer dumb fat face!"
This wasn't taken seriously at all. "AH HA HA HA HA HA HA!" He snorted twice. "AAAAH HA HA HA HA HA HAAA! Oh, what a disgrace to humanity! What, so now if I watch zhat shitty remake of Romeo and Juliet zhat was on last month I'm automatically acquainted wizh Shakespeare?"
Spy brought both gloves to press his cheeks together, making him look exceedingly silly. His voice grew squeaky and mocking as he continued; "Oh, look at Scout! Zhe reading aficionado! FINALLY, he's not some sort of pea-brain zhat melts on zhe couch watching MOVIES like a complete TWIT! Such an intellect wasted on such an ugly, UGLY boy!"
"SHUT UP! SHUT UP, SPY! I DON'T EVEN LIKE READIN'! READIN' IS FER NERDY DORK CHUMPS LIKE YOU!" Scout nearly chewed his own tongue off with his snappy retorts. "You shut yer dumbass French trap" – he waved the Polaroid in the air as if it needed more time to dry – "'cause da national state law saids ya gotta leave cases like dis to da professional detectives LIKE US! So do e'ryone a favor and ya back off and don't – "
"Oo, what's zhis?" A glove flew to snatch the photo. In a second, their evidence was in the wrong hands: in an embarrassingly literal sense. (Sorry, Holmes buddies, but you two would never make it as real agents.)
Wide eyes spread below the frontal deerstalker flap. "HEY! YO, WHAT DA FUCK?" Scout attempted to rip the picture out of the man's grip before Spy could understand what the Polaroid depicted, but Spy pursed his lips and refused to let go until he could have a look for himself. Reasoning was useless because one could have already had a thousand looks, but the photo was down to their feuding arms like a game of tug-o'-war.
Spy sneered as he attempted to tug the photo from Scout's thumbs. "I'm going to find out what's on it sooner or later, you little brat! Let me 'ave just zhe slightest glance, would you?"
No matter how hard one pleaded, lack-of-logic was sure to win in the end. Or at least, it seemed so by volume; "OH MY GOD FUCKIN' DON'T LOOK AT IT, IT'S CLASSIFIED INFO'MATION ONLY TO DA POLICE AND INTERPOL AND DETECTIVES LIKE US!"
Scout's grip on the photo was ceased for a second. But, before Spy could have a look, his nose was hammered back into his balaclava by the knuckles of a misbehaving Private Eye.
Bundles of nerves in the specific spot sent the pain spiking his adrenaline to an unhealthy limit. "RRRGH, ÇA PUTE! LET ME SEE!" The little slip of camerawork was hoisted up by those red pinstripes to get a shorter Scout grabbing up like a needy child and sent Spy bursting into laughter. As soon as Scout's hand was inches away from taking back Sniper's personal property, Spy delivered a mile-per-minute glove smack between the eyes that sent the boy flying against the desk.
"AAAAAUGH!" With a painful clunk made by Scout's hip bashing against wood, a plastic bottle of pencils was knocked off the side of the desk and sprinkled down into the trash can with all the soggy tissues and the zombie nuggets. The poor pencils.
"MMH MYH GMMHD!" screamed Pyro, becoming quite aflutter at the fact that Sherlock had just been attacked. The assistant-detective's assumption of the matter was incorrect, for Scout had been the true attackée. It seems the Watson-wannabe isn't as good of a concurrer as previously thought.
Scout, half of whose weight was sturdied with Sniper's desk thanks to his own helping hand, nearly tripped on a pile of unsent thank-you letters beneath his feet. "IT AIN'T OVER, LARD-BALLS!" With a grunt, he lunged at the Frenchman and sent them both to a messy heap on the floor in a very kamikaze-inspired sabotage. The Sherlock hat flew into the air. Lucky for arsonist arms, it was caught and nestled lovingly.
Spy struggled to attempt a final look at the grayscale, but Scout flailing about before him made it hard to even sneak a peek. As soon as the Polaroid neared Spy's viewing point, a hand smacked against Spy's cheek and its velocity was two newtons away of making the nosy Frenchman need a neck brace.
If Soldier were there, he'd make an unwanted WWII joke. "FORFEIT! FORFEIT!" pleaded the Frenchman, for he had no reason to wash his suit yet again after that little dumpling-spill the other day. "STOP IT, WILL YOU! 'Ere, Christ, 'ave zhe photo!" With a sullen expression, he squirmed out of the two-person dog pile, rose to his feet and tossed the picture to a shocked Scout who was still sitting on the floor.
That was certainly an unexpected turn of events. Shoving the photo into the front pocket of his pants, he steadied himself with the weight of the desk as he regained his regular posture. "Wow, thanks, scumbag." The hat was plopped back onto his head by Pyro, but Scout didn't even notice or provide his friend with a polite 'thank-you'.
"I'm sorry for putting up such zhe hassle," said Spy, eyebrows straight and smirk forming yet again. "I suppose I really should 'ave minded my own business, shouldn't I 'ave?"
Pyro stuck a hand out in apology-acceptance. "Mm-hm, bhmt yhmm nvhhr dmh."
As stealth and fire shook gloves, Scout simply pouted his own platysmus for all to see. "Yeah, well, I guarantee dat if ya ever gonna come by an' try ta steal one a my things again yer gonna get it right in da – "
"Yoink!" In seconds flat the picture was before Spy's face, held with both his gloves. "Ha ha ha, what zhe 'ell? Hippies? What's zhe big deal?"
Round two; winner, the Spy. "AWWW, YOU FUCKIN' DOUCHE!" There was nothing more to say – or rather groan – other than a vast array of under-the-breath remarks. Though sure to be a little infra dig, what would have had served them very well would have been a humble little speech along the lines of 'we should have not trusted you, for you are obviously better at espionage and detective work than us. Perhaps this is due to the fact that the whole of your profession consists solely of nosily butting in your nosy butt where you don't belong. As phony movie-based detectives working without a cause and using only the small wits we have, we would have gotten away with our not-very-intricate plot if it weren't for you meddling Spies! Darn, we really got outsmarted by you this time! Fair play and touché, my friend!'
But the road to having something said also crossed the little side-hills of dignity, so it ended up sounding more like 'I hope you have fun hoppin' on dick, ya ugly French fag' and 'Ymh mrthrfmmkrh, Sphmh. Lmtrhlly.'
Insults didn't concern him, especially obligatory ones such as those. "Wait a second!" Spy's eyes bulged far beyond his balaclava. "'oly mackerel! Zhat's Sniper in the bottom left, isn't it? Oo."
"Wow, big fuckin' genius brain of yers," grumbled Scout, crestfallen in his own way. "We knew dat before you."
Spy inspected the cigar within the photo. "Ugh, is zhat really hemp?"
"Whad'ja say?"
"Hmph?"
Innocence must be kept. "Oh, er, nozhing. Just anozher French word you don't know, yes." Spy raised his eyes, tilted eyebrows sliding up his mask. "So, any observations you 'ave made, men?"
"It says some shit on the back in Australian!" declared Scout with a grin, happy he'd contributed just a bit.
Spy nodded, flipping the photo over. "I see." Spy had taken a class back in the day to classify any possible handwriting – part of the incognito curriculum, as you know – and his knowledge was rusty but still available. His most astonishing feat was reading the sloppy handwriting's number content in two seconds flat; "Says '1959', hm." Spy suddenly snapped into crime-investigator mode;
"Zhe letters is tilted a bit to the right and lines appear shaky...'astily written. In a hurry. Either zhat on or the influence. Pen drifts out at zhe end. S'hough it appears it was 'eld zhere for a while...sort of jiggles out at zhe last moment as if not determined by Sniper...per'aps on zhe plane or boat back to his parents from California or Nevada or Texas or wherever zhat 'ippie thing was 'eld, I'd suppose. Ink looks faded, so I'm probably right..."
Tiny pang of discovery; "Mm, what's zhis? Just noticed zhere's some sort of smudge in zhe corner. I can't make it out. Probably written in similar ink and smudged before dry, what a shame...could 'ave been anozher clue, I'd say. Probably zhe name of zhe hippie thing, but zhat's just a near guess. Every detail matters in any case, as you know, so..."
"Spy?"
He looked up, eyes still serious though he was thrown off of his concentration. "Scout?"
Scout kicked at the floor sheepishly, making it seem apparent that the next sentence was sure to be a sensitive topic. "If I was from France, where you was from...would I get cool supah-detective powahs like you?"
Spy closed his eyes and emitted an exceedingly lingering sigh, only then to state, "No, Scout. Just...shut up."
Scout's shoulders sagged with a feeble, "Aww." Sprining back to life with a usual grin, Scout then continued his own little investigation. "What if I wore yer mask every day fer the rest of my whole wide life?"
"So, enough wis'h zhe stupid questions." He began anew; "What are you going to do about zhis photo? Might want to tell me, for I doubt anys'hing will work out unless." A mockish smile formed on Spy's lips, for he knew that any figuratively devious thing the two idiots could dream up wasn't going to useful to anyone in the long run. "As we all know...zhe best-laid plans of mice and men often go astray." He let out a clever little snort.
Scout started off well – "Oh, yeah, well, we're gonna..." – but his sentence ended by trailing off and turning towards Pyro. "We have a plan, right?"
Pyro shrugged helplessly, whining, "Dhmn'th lmmk mmth MMH! Mh dhmn'th knmrh!"
That was about the saddest sight Spy had ever seen. His eyes just drooped and his face perplexed into one of complete lack of understanding. Spy didn't understand how was it possible that no one else had the talent of knowing exactly how to put one of the REDs into deep shit. "No? No blackmailing? No tattling? Nozhing?"
And again.
"Blhmmkhngh? Hm?"
"Wha' da hell's 'blackmailing'?" The remark was taken aback to save the smallest stride of worth in himself; "Wait, no, I think I heard dat word somewhere...is it about taxes? It sounds like it's about taxes. If it ain't about taxes, then it fuckin' should be about taxes, a'ight?"
First hemp, now blackmailing. Spy truly didn't believe that he belonged on such an ignorant excuse of a team.
A finger raised to press against his temples as if assuring himself his head hadn't exploded due to such stress yet. The photo was a pint of willpower away from being crumpled to a crinkly bit. Only one sentence could sum it up probably; "Excuse me, fellows, but you two are complete FOOLS!"
Pensive self-defense; "Nmh! Yhm'rh nnh mdhmth!"
Assertive social-offense; "GO FUCK A COLAH'ED PENCIL!"
Contemplative social-defense; "Fine, idiots. I'll tell you what blackmailing is, all right? It's...give a moment..." He coughed and proudly announced the exact definition of the word, for he was the intellect of the team after all; "...zhe exertion of s'hreats in an attempt to influence someone's actions."
Impulsive self-offense; "Uh...I have no idea what da hell you just said."
(I'm trying to imply a psychological-conversation-based soccer game.)
(Scout was losing.)
An eye-roll was the proper reaction from a Spy, for his definition seemed clear enough to any normally-educated man such as himself. "You basically could make Sniper your bitch now so everyone doesn't find out 'is past. Can do whatever you tell him to – mock and pester him as well, and he can't do anything, per se." What a sadistic fellow Spy was, for his small chuckle that sounded right then wordlessly showed a world of things Sniper had already done for him. His gloves intertwined like that of a villainous cartoon character; "Sounds just great, yes?"
"COOL! I WANT SNIPAH TA BE MY BITCH!" cheered Scout, for every historical Aussie-is-now-my-bitch moment needed fathomable confirmation. "Can he, like, make me breakfast e'ry mornin' and stuff like dat?"
"Snmmphr'sh mhy bmmtsh tmmh!" huffed Pyro.
Scout hurriedly corrected himself. "Make us breakfast, I mean!"
Of course, this was certainly a weird request. Spy smirked and shrugged, hands pulling apart and shoving into his pockets. "Uh, technically, yes. If zhat's what you want. Chacun son goût, I suppose."
"YAY! HIGH FIVE, PY-BRO!" Gauze met rubber with a lighthearted smack.
The lack of their imagination was killing Spy from the inside of his backstabbing heart. "What, you don't 'ave any other ideas?"
Scout grinned. "Maybe we can get him to wear his clothes inside out!"
"Wmh cmnh stmmhl hsh HMTSH!"
The face before the mask grew expressionless. "Zhat's...zhat's literally all you can come up wizh?"
Scout looked back at Spy, expression content and tilting his head a bit with a murmur of, "Sorta, yeah."
The Frenchman groaned and counted off the options with the tips of his gloves. "Well...'e can clean your room, drink his own piss, make a fool of himself, drive you to places, give you money...oh, I don't know – "
"COOL! I WANT SNIPAH TA MAKE A FOOL OF HIMSELF!" cheered Scout for the second time. "WE SHOULD, LIKE, MAKE HIM DO CHA'LIE CHAPLIN IMPRESSIONS!"
Pyro instantly got a mental image and couldn't resist but to explode into muffly giggles.
"Don't you realize zhat Sniper could do virtually ANYZHING for you?" His palms flung out before him, hands gesturing every which way, leather balloons before a fast-motioned helicopter. "'e can be your SLAVE! 'e can give you 'is PAYCHECKS! TAKE OUT ZHE TRASH! DO YOUR LAUNDRY! AND PER'APS IF YOU WANT TO GET TO ZHE EXTREMES, YOU COULD MAKE HIM JUST GO ON 'IS KNEES AND GIVE YOU..."
The eyes among the mask grew wide, for that sentence was stopped just at the right moment. Quick save needed, quick save proceeded; "Give his...shoes. Or his sunglasses or somes'hing." Spy coughed. Quick save completed...
Scout and Pyro looked a bit confused, but the sleuths didn't get the clue-of-the-day.
...quick save succeeded.
The persuasion hasn't been concluded properly, so Spy started his little rant-paragraph anew. "In short, 'e can do COUNTLESS ozher SICKENING S'HINGS! And all you two can s'hink of is breakfast. I say, what a disappointment!"
Scout huffed. "It's better den what you did. Weirdo."
Moment of terror. One could literally see the back of Spy's suit rise in a spastic jerk of his trapeziuses. It was a horrid mistake of him to tell both the REDs every which way blackmailing could be performed. Oh, how terrible it would be to have to work on that Scout, and Spy shuddered to imagine what inhuman parts lay beyond Pyro's full-body suit. "Men, please..." A faux smile twitched behind his mask. "Let's not take anything to such extents. It didn't mean anys'hing, do you understand? It was just one time – "
"Yeah, but I still think it's creepy a' you ta wear his shoes. Like, what?"
Pyro seconded that thought. "Whmmt mh stmmphd wmy tmh blmckmmhl Snmmphr."
It appears the quick save really did work. Spy threw his head back slightly with a sigh, tugging his sweaty collar away. "Ah, thank the lord." He snapped back into his regular stance. "Anyway. How will you go about blackmailing Sniper?"
The Jeopardy theme tune could have really fit in that moment. Scout's eyes were averted towards his cleats that dug into the floor like plastic jackhammers, whilst Pyro crossed both arms and hmmed.
"We can put peanut buttah in his shoes before he wakes up, and then he'll be all like 'crikey, it's dog poo-poo'!" announced Scout before howling in laughter with Pyro.
"Zhat's a prank, not blackmailing!" snarled Spy, grinding his teeth so hard it's a wonder the cigarette didn't erode to two bits. "And we don't even 'ave a dog! And you already did zhat s'ree days ago! TO ME!"
A conclusion had been formed. "Pranking are funnier den blackmailin' by a thousan' times."
The number was multiplied by a perplexillion nonsensicillion. "Mh mmllhn-trmllhn-gmzhllhn-bllhmn-whmtmllhn-gmghrhshtmllhn tmmhs!"
It was time to seriously give up. He threw his hands up, defeat overtaking him. "Zhat's it." He tossed the photo in his hands to an awed Scout, that hurriedly grabbed it from the air. "You know what? I give up trying to give dumb children proper knowledge!" Spy whooshed around and attempted to leave the room in the same way he had gone in. "Vous two are – " the squeak of a rubber horn underfoot interrupted him – "ridiculous! Sort it out yourselves."
"Yer MA is ridiculous!" countered Scout, for everyone had a soft spot for their mother.
Spy stopped in his tracks to turn around with a sly grin. "I wouldn't say zhat about your mozher..."
Scout growled and shook with such vigor it looked as if his neck would pop his head right off to bash through the greasy ceiling like a Bostonian bottle rocket. Before he could think of a proper comeback, Spy was already gone with the door slamming behind him.
"Whmmthmvhr," humphed Pyro, not letting the Frenchman's insults get to either of them. "Fmmk Sphmh. Dmshebmgh."
"Yer RIGHT, PYRO! We don't gotta depend on a NON-DETECTIVE anyway!" screamed Scout, voice aimed at the door as if his current goal was for Spy to hear the REDs insulting him behind their back. "BECAUSE SPYYYYY IS SOOOOO GAAAAAY! AND HE SMELLS A LOT! AND FRENCH PEOPLE ALL ARE REAL DUMB AND CRAPFUL!"
No response.
Pyro flipped an arm at the unseen target. "Dmshebmgh."